


Self-Deluded Ballerina

by strifechaos



Category: Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (2005)
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Pre-Slash, horrible dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 09:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3406175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strifechaos/pseuds/strifechaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perry watches Harry out on the dance floor. Surprising to exactly no one, Harry can't dance.</p><p> </p><p>(Cleaned up and reposted from lj, original for ROK prompt: dancing)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Self-Deluded Ballerina

**Author's Note:**

> There is a mention of the act of people drowning kittens in a well, sorta. If that's a trigger for you, this is your warning. (I don't approve of drowning animals in wells, or otherwise. Duh.)
> 
> Disclaimer: Kiss Kiss Bang Bang is surprising to no one, not my movie. No infringement is meant, just having some fun.

-0-0-

 

Perry had never seen Harry dance before. Never. And if the scene unfolding before his eyes is anything to go by, it’s something he should thank his lucky stars about because unsurprisingly, Harry isn’t any more graceful on the dance floor than he is in his everyday life. Which, Perry supposes, he shouldn’t be shocked by, but sometimes, only sometimes mind you, but on the occasion that Perry allows Harry to come out in public with him, the younger man can generally blend in with an unexpected amount of skill. Harry doesn’t stick out as an outsider when he walks into a room, at least not until he opens that damn mouth of his anyways. But tonight, Harry is sending out a beacon that he’s an idiot man child that dances like a spastic chicken trying to be the first poultry to launch itself into flight. Perry cringes.

Right as the DJ starts up something with a heavy beat Harry starts waving his right arm in a wild helicopter type of motion above his head and the other is swinging low by his crotch, Perry might have described it as being remarkably similar to how a gorilla moves, if he’d ever actually seen one in person. But he hasn’t, so that’s not how he describes it at all, instead he takes a deep swallow from his glass, finishing off the last of the drink before motioning for the bartender to fill it again. Even before the man wanders off, Perry’s bolting it back, slamming the glass back down before launching himself into the crowd.

He hates Harry. Not just sometimes, but as a general rule, he hates Harry. This is why Perry doesn’t do friends. At all -- so as to avoid finding himself in the position where he’s forced to save said friend from public humiliation, and by extension himself.

The ex-con-ex-actor-ex-fake-detective-current-secretary lights up when he spots Perry; he beams at the taller man, dimples flashing and eyebrows leaping towards his hairline, he waves his four fingered hand at Perry, acting like they haven't spent the majority of the day in each other's back pockets discussing the case they're on, and managing to look even more retarded than when he’d been dancing.

Which he hasn’t stopped doing, only now Harry is doing something that Perry suspects is a misguided-blind-man’s idea of how Michael Jackson’s moonwalk looks like crossed with the Robot. It’s painful to watch, and Perry suddenly thinks that he should have told the bartender to make it a double. Instead he smacks Harry in the back of the head and curses him out as he grabs on of Harry’s flailing arms and tugs him towards the edge of the dance floor and back to the bar.

The goof collapses on the nearest stool, leaning back against the bar and turning the big ass grin on Perry. 

“Great moves, huh?” Perry can only stare, dumbfounded, feeling as if he’s the one that’s been smacked in the back of the head. Harry, his question having gone unanswered, of course takes Perry's stunned silence as positive reinforcement, and really it shouldn’t surprise the detective. It doesn’t matter what he says to Harry -- even outright criticism tends to bounce right off of him, and that trait alone is the only explanation that Perry can offer when Harmony ask him how they’re still together.

In a strictly professional manner. Strictly professional. 

Because there is no way in hell he would ever trust Harry with his dick. Not in a million years. The idiot can’t even look after himself, let alone another person. It’d only taken a month before his Long Destined To Be Together relationship with Harmony had crashed and burned in an epically insane event that Perry still doesn’t completely understand but since there hadn’t been any bullets or guns this time, that they’ve told Perry about at least, he’s leaving that particular kettle of fish alone. 

They still act like two peas in a pod, in that they’re like two naïve kittens in a basket that some asshole dropped off on Perry’s doorstep instead of doing the honorable thing and drowning them in a well like any respectable human being. Instead, Perry’s stuck with Harry as his overgrown toddler slash secretary and Harmony as the only other person who is willing to help reign the little terror in. Tonight had been his responsibility because of some director’s party Harmony had taken off to in hopes of scoring a part in his next production, and Harry had been all too willing to go undercover to spy on a client’s girlfriend with Perry.

Perry has yet to spot their target for tonight, so even knowing he’ll regret it, Perry looks at Harry and curses, not under his breath at all. The man is half sprawled across the bar, apparently Harry’s attempt at trying to flag the bartender having failed the ex-thief has taken into his head to try and serve himself something to drink.

And that translates in Harry’s little pea-sized brain into leaning over the bar, and snagging some random bottle. It’s utterly ridiculous, and shouldn’t work out at all because life just isn’t like that, really it’s not, and it might not be for the rest of the world but Perry has found much to his bafflement that the world will sometimes bend to Harry Lockhart’s will in a manner that irritates the fuck out of the detective. 

Perry’s half a breath away from calling Harry a ‘fuck head who better pay for that before they get tossed out and arrested’ but he’s a little distracted with the up close view of Harry’s ass, framed in a pair of worn jeans that are just the right amount tight, which Harry has been stupidly proud of purchasing with his “first paycheck in over fifteen years, you just don’t understand, Perry!” that stretch over a round ass that is weakening Perry’s resolve to even trust Harry with his dick. So really, Perry isn’t sure if the bartender reacts to Harry’s self-service method but he’s pretty flummoxed himself over the moral dilemma of letting an idiot like Harry get under his skin.

When the dumbass swivels around on his stool to shoot a gloating smirk at Perry, sipping his beer and rambling about how he picked up some new moves that Perry “just had to see and that he's pretty sure he scored their mark's number”, the detective just grabs hold of Harry’s belt and reigns him in. It helps center Perry more than he’ll admit because reigning Harry in is disturbingly what their partnership has been built on. 

Harry trying to do something failingly stupid that gets him in untold amounts of trouble, Perry being there to pull his ass out of the fire in the nick of time and them somehow managing to solve the case. It works for them. It shouldn't, it really, really shouldn't but it does.

And so sometimes, just sometimes mind you, on a very rare occasion, Perry doesn’t completely hate Harry. 

Except when he dances. 

-0-0-0-

The End.


End file.
